


Minor Fits of Jealousy

by HCN



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Impact Play, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-07-19 08:14:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7353049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HCN/pseuds/HCN
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond goes with M to pay Silva a private visit while he's in custody.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Minor Fits of Jealousy

**Author's Note:**

> A special thanks to [v1als](http://v1als.tumblr.com) for beta-ing this for me.
> 
> I also want to give thanks to rsadelle's [Chiefly Responsible for Discipline](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6575707) for introducing me to a new kink.

Silva was the one imprisoned behind glass with nowhere in the world to hide, but even with that advantage Bond knew he was the one being watched. The man was assessing him, and Bond couldn’t help but to wonder how he measured up.

“So,” Silva finally said, breaking the silence that settled over them. “Do you think you were her first?”

Bond cocked an eyebrow. “That depends entirely on what you mean.”

“Her favourite.”

“You’ve already told me that you were her favourite. Back on the island. Or did you forget already?”

“No, no.” Silva shook his head. “Do you think it’s you she thinks about when she sees you, or do you think it’s my blood she thinks about?”

*

After the inquiry M led Bond and Tanner down to the new cell where Silva was now being held. It was small, about three metres in any direction. There were no glass cages, only a table, a chair, and the harsh blinding light hanging overhead.

Silva raised his head as they entered, his face brightening when he saw M.

“You’ve come back for me!” he said. “Perhaps you feel some remorse after all?”

“Hardly,” M said. “Tanner!”

Both Silva and Bond watched as Tanner stepped forward, carrying a small briefcase that he offered to M.

“Leave it there,” M said, nodding to the table.

Tanner did, then turned back to M awaiting further instructions, but she’d already turned her attention back to Silva.

“I don’t think anything you could have recovered from my island would fit in this,” he said, nodding at her suitcase.

“That would be correct.” M glanced at the briefcase Tanner left on the table, then towards him. “Tanner, please wait outside. Tell security to leave, as well.”

“Are you sure that’s wise, ma’am?” he asked.

“I do believe 007 is more than capable of protecting me.”

A surge of warmth swelled in Bond’s chest, and without meaning to he felt as he straightened his back and readjusted his posture. If M noticed, she didn’t acknowledge it; it was Silva whose eyes met Bond across the room. He gave a knowing smile and just as quickly as that pride overcame Bond, something cold replaced it.

Silva turned his attention back to M. “So this is your new favourite?”

“Bond,” M said, ignoring Silva.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“The briefcase, please.”

Bond turned away from Silva and moved over to the table. There was the minute chance that Silva would try to attack M, or Bond, but measuring the atmosphere in the room he didn’t find it likely. He could feel Silva’s eyes on his back, as focused as he’d been on the island. This was interesting to him. He wanted to see what happened next.

Meticulously, Bond unlatched the briefcase.

The cat of nine tails stared out at him from the briefcase. Bond gave a slight shake of his head, wondering what Tanner would think if he knew just what it was he was carrying for M. He wasn’t surprised to find it there, but Bond couldn’t stop the jealousy from surging somewhere deep below the surface. It was heavier than he pictured it when he picked it up, and more textured. Weighing it in his hands, Bond felt like a schoolboy toying with his father’s briefcase with grimy, dirty hands.

When he looked back, he could see Silva leaning forward in his chair, his expression one of feigned disinterest – a lie, blatantly.

Bond turned to M. “You’ve certainly prepared for everything.”

*

 When Bond came home from Bolivia M was waiting for him in her office. He sat across the desk from her, leaning on one arm and glaring over her desk ornaments and laptop at her.

“It seems you’ve come back in one piece, 007,” she said. “Although I can’t say the same about everything else you’ve been in contact with.”

“I got the job done.”

“You did,” she said. “And you left a trail of casualties leading straight to MI6.”

“What did you want me to do?” Bond asked. “I made the right call, and you know it. It’s why you put me in the field, because you needed someone willing to pull the trigger.”

M looked at him from over her desk, her hands folded in front of her. Bond knew that he was at least a head taller than she, but sitting like this, he may as well have been only an inch tall.

“What I need,” she said. “Is an agent able and willing to judge his situation before acting.”

“What you need,” Bond said, “is an agent willing to act. And I am.”

He didn’t miss the curve in the side of her mouth, the beginning of a smile that quickly retreated. Months later he’d think about it in the shower while he had one hand wrapped tight around his cock. Years later, weeks after he washed up on a beach in Turkey, when his thoughts finally returned to her even if his body didn’t, he’d realise for the first time that he only saw that slip because she wanted him to.

“I need an agent that I can trust,” M said. “One who will follow my orders, and who will be mine before anything else.”

“I am yours.”

“But do you trust me?” M asked, and Bond stopped.

He sat up straight and looked at her, and wondered what she saw when she looked at him. There she was, a tiny woman who stood at least a head shorter than he; if it were a test of physical strength he’d undoubtedly win, and even knowing that she was his superior shouldn’t be enough to let her forget that.

Instead she sat behind her desk, her eyes staring straight into his.

She’d already pegged him for hers, and Bond had a feeling that she wasn’t going to let him go so easily. Something settled in his stomach, and he felt the muscles loosen at his shoulders.

“After everything you’ve done for me? Of course I do.” 

*

Silva stood with his hands against the wall, revealing a marred terrain of flesh that was impossible for Bond to look away from. There were burns stretching across his spine and over his hips, a mix of red hues interrupted by deep white gouges criss-crossing over each other, old injuries layered over other injuries. He wasn’t thin, but several of his ribs were visible where they sat mangled and pressing outwards at severe angles against his skin.

Every time Bond saw the man he looked different: first on the island, with his garish Prada shirt and neatly pressed jacket, and then in his cell, a creature more suited to the shadows, now dragged up to face the piercing lights that shone down on him. His face sagged when he pulled out his mouthplate, with stretchmarks under his cheekbones; his skin looked like something that could be pulled back to reveal something underneath, something raw and still painful.

Silva turned to look over his shoulder. The muscles on his back flexed with the movement, pushing out against some of the scars. “What do you think? You can’t seem to take your eyes away from me.”

“I’m just thinking that it doesn’t look like you’ll have any room for this.”

“I’ve heard that before,” Silva said. “They found room.”

“Enough,” M snapped. “You’ve already said your piece. Turn back to the wall.”

“Oh, how I never thought I’d hear you say that again,” Silva said. “I thought the worst, that you moved on to something else. Something fresh.” He ended his sentence like the word was foul, gnashing his teeth like it was a struggle to speak.

Silva turned away facing the wall again. His body tensed, straining. If he were on his toes he’d almost be holding a stress position, but maybe that was cruel in a way M wasn’t.

Bond held out the whip for M to take. She looked at it, then looked back up to Bond. “I think I can trust you to take care of this this time, don’t you agree?”

Bond felt his face tighten. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. I believe twenty lashes is a good place to start.”

“Of course, ma’am,” Bond said, now on autopilot.

He moved around the room so he could stand directly behind Silva, measuring the distance he would need to ensure the whip would reach him. Silva’s head was bowed, and every one of his breaths was slow and measured as he braced himself for what was to come.

Bond wanted to ask what the hell Silva had done to deserve this, but knew what the answer would be. This was punishment, for Silva and for himself. It was one more game that M played with him, one more way that she tested him: how willing was he to do anything she asked, even if he wanted to be on the other side of the whip? At least she had a use for him.

The first crack of the whip came with no warning. If Silva anticipated it, it stood as a testament to his own training and awareness, whatever remained from his time as M’s former agent.

The thought stung worse than Bond would have imagined, and the second crack came quickly after, a thick red line overlapping the first. On the fifth crack he drew blood, and by the eighth he realised that M was shaking her head, her face pinched with disapproval.

“Is there a problem, ma’am?” Bond asked. He hadn’t realised before how heavy his own breathings had become, each stroke pulling out more strength than he’d anticipated. He’d known for a while that it took effort, but every time M was finished with him she’d barely looked like she’d broken a sweat.

“You’re being far to blunt, 007,” M said. “Look at this. What are you trying to accomplish? He’s not a piece of meat.”

Silva gave a strained chuckle, and Bond clenched his fist tighter around the whip. “Would you prefer to do it, then?”

“No I would not,” she said. “Finish what you started, Bond.”

Bond turned back to Silva, forcing himself to steady his breath before continuing. Besides the blood Silva’s back was covered in welts, bright red standing out against the various white scars decorating his skin. His breaths were slow and long, but there was no hiding how his muscles tensed where he was standing.

He steadied his hand, then continued.

*

M had him come to her office after hours, in the evening when the building was mostly deserted.

“I see you arrived without any difficulty.”

“Surprised I made it?”

“I knew you’d come,” M said, finishing something on her computer before locking her screen and moving her keyboard to the side. She looked at Bond, eyeing him over before she said, “Take off your jacket. And your shirt, while you’re at it.”

Bond shivered as he slipped his jacket off his shoulders, folding it and hanging it across the back of her chair. His shirt followed, his fingers undoing the buttons with well-practiced efficiency until his bare chest was exposed. Behind him he heard as M locked the door, then returned to her desk and closed the blinds. When she finally faced him again he was shirtless.

“You’re not wasting any time,” Bond commented as she observed him.

“Why would I?”

“It’s not very good foreplay, otherwise,” Bond said, a brief smile cracking across his face before vanishing again.

M raised her eyes to look at him. Even though he was still dressed from the waist down he figured he may as well have been naked, for the look she gave him. Bond rolled onto the balls of his feet, needing to force himself to stand still.

“I don’t know what you think this is about, 007, but if you think you’ve been brought here under any misconceptions, now would be the time to leave.”

Bond pursed his lips. “No, ma’am. Of course not.”

“Good,” M said. “Now turn around, and kneel.”

He could feel the carpet through his trousers, and a cool chill running over him as gooseflesh developed over his exposed back. Behind him Bond heard the sound of drawers being opened, and of something being placed on the hard wood of her desk. Every second seemed to drag on for hours. He forced himself to stay steady, calling upon something in his training to clear his head.

Finally, the silence was interrupted by her voice. “Do you want me to count, or will you?”

“I’ll do it,” he said, like he had something to prove.

But wasn’t that why he was here? He came to prove his loyalty to her, and now that he was here, it was all a matter of proving his endurance.

He heard the whip come whistling through the air a second before he felt it make contact with his skin. The split second between the sound and the impact was the only warning he got, and even so he still had to force himself to stifle a gasp.

It was a familiar feeling – not that this was anything like when he’d been in the belly of that boat, tied down by Le Chiffre and made to scream, but the sensations were familiar enough that he remembered. It wasn’t that long ago. He blinked, trying to clear his head again as the seconds dragged on, and he remembered that M had asked him to count.

“One,” he said, his voice breathy and the word heavy in the air.

Methodically, M continued, quickly falling into a rhythm of cracks and blunt thuds against Bond’s skin and counting. Slowly Bond’s words swayed from breathy to strained. After every count M paused, and somewhere around the seventh strike Bond found himself waiting for the end, holding his breath against the inevitability of another hit.

When she did finish Bond’s shoulders sagged, the movement tugging at his skin and stinging. He winced, but straightened up again when M walked into his field of vision, looking down at him.

“Ma’am,” he said.

“Well,” she said. “Certainly not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

Her mouth curved into a hint of a smile again, one that told Bond that she wasn’t disappointed, whatever her expectations were – but she had expectations. Suddenly, with an almost blinding urgency Bond was overcome by the ridiculous notion that even more than wanting to prove that he could endure anything that she offered him, he wanted to prove her right.

*

When he was finished, Silva laughed.

“Something funny, Mr Silva?” Bond asked.

“No, no,” Silva said. He stepped away from the wall, wincing and turning to face Bond. “I’m just trying to remember how it felt back then, when it was her doing this to me.”

Anger jolted through him, just at the same time as the memory of what it felt like to have that burning white lash on his own back.

Silva smiled. “She really never told you that you had a brother, did she?”

“That’s quite enough,” M snapped. “I won’t have you harassing my agents like some perpetual child.”

“But Mother,” Silva said. “I’m so hurt that you didn’t do this to me yourself.”

“I thought it only appropriate that I have my latest blunt instrument deal with my former,” M said.

Silva scoffed. “Me, a blunt instrument. I was never.”

M shook her head, moving her eyes across his broad shoulders, down to his hips, where she stopped. “No, I suppose you weren’t. You were certainly always something, though.”

“And what’s that?”

“Uncomfortable.”

Bond followed her gaze to where Silva's erection as visible through his trousers.

“I suppose it’s a response you conditioned into me. It made things awkward in China, at times.” He turned to James. “See what I mean? She’s changed us both.”

“It didn’t take her very long with me,” Bond said, and Silva only laughed.

“I’m sure, James.”

He reached down towards the hem of his trousers, towards where he was pressing against the fabric of his trousers and straining. Bond watched, mesmerized by the motion. Silva’s eyes were fixed on M, but as he slipped his hand down the front of his trousers he looked over at Bond and smiled.

“That’s quite enough, Mr Silva,” M snapped.

Silva’s hand froze, and he looked like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, except the cookie jar was his cock. “Mum?”

“Bond,” M said. “I do believe Mr Silva requires some assistance.”

*

Bond never fucked M, although day by day the thoughts crept up on him: in the shower, after he was done cleaning up whatever wounds she gave him; while he cleaned up after the wounds he received on her behalf, doing her duty; at night in a strange hotel while he was alone, his back aching for the rawness she left him with; when he finally closed his eyes and slept; every time he woke just moments before he could relieve the pressure built inside himself as he undressed her in his dreams.

Bond knew better than to ever hope she’d let him do that to her, and he didn’t lie to himself with the possibility that maybe, one day they’d go further than her hands on him. She made him come, with her own hand and with her orders, and then for days later, when his thoughts always returned to her. Every time he remembered what he’d done it felt less sexual and more like ownership.

Solange was not the first woman Bond brought to bed for a job, but she was his first as a double-0. It was a convenient method, one that barely strained Bond’s effort, and simply relied on a physical need older than the human race itself – one that Bond was somehow seemingly immune to on the field. There were women who came and went, most notably Vesper, and women he cared about – some he even felt bad for – but in the end, after everything, there was only M.

*

_Your knees must be killing you._

The floor was hard and the air was dry and cool, but it wasn’t the worst place Bond had sucked a man off, nor was it even the worst situation. Even if it was uncomfortable it was controlled – the direct result of M’s orders, not just something he did on her behalf. Silva hadn’t moved or objected when Bond unzipped his trousers and pulled them down; he spread his legs, making this easier for Bond.

It almost added insult to injury.

In front of Silva, Bond had a clear view of the scars stretching across Silva’s body, not as bad as his back but bad enough. A few red welts reached around Silva’s shoulders, dipping past his collar bones from where the whip curled around his body – the remnants of some of Bond’s sloppier strokes.

He settled a hand on Silva’s knee, and the other moved to his bare hip. Above him Silva tensed.

“Well?” he asked. “Don’t keep Mummy waiting.”

Bond could just imagine how Silva was smiling at M above his head, made even more disturbing by how sincerely he meant it. He reached down between Silva’s legs, and Silva sighed as he touched him, leaning back against the wall. Bond tightened his hold on Silva’s thigh to keep him in place. Most of it was for show, but there was something genuine in the way Silva’s muscles tensed as Bond held him in place, something Bond didn’t think could be faked.

He moved his hand down Silva’s cock, cupping it in his hands before slowly wrapping his mouth around the tip. Above him Silva groaned, and Bond shifted, pulling more and more of it down into his mouth.

He could still feel the floor under his knees, and the cool air that tickled the back of his neck, making the finer hairs prickle. His face was warm, and when Silva clamped a hand on his shoulder Bond felt something jolt straight between his legs. He shifted again, and Silva tightened his hold on Bond’s shoulder. Everything Bond did earned some sort of reaction from Silva: a twitch of the thighs, tensing fingers burying themselves in Bonds’ shoulder, a gasp, a moan.

And then Silva stopped, his hand moving from Bond’s shoulder to his hair and clenching his fist around it, turning his head up so their eyes met.

“She’s still watching, you know,” Silva murmured. “Try to make it good, for her.”

His words went straight to Bond’s cock, and almost against his will he pulled Silva closer, taking more of him in his mouth and moving up and down Silva’s cock. This was M’s will, and Bond wasn’t the only one following it.

Finally, he heard Silva moan again, ragged and breathy and not so loud as any of the other noises he’d been making. He arched up, forcing Bond to pull back before Silva finished in his mouth; like any good instrument, Bond swallowed.

*

On the island Bond resisted shifting in his restraints. The sunlight filtering through the open windows washed the colour from the room, fading the light from Silva’s computer monitors.

“You see, we are the last two rats,” Silva said. “We can either eat each other... hmm?” He watched Bond for a moment. The colour in his eyes was a faded blue, as washed out as the rest of the room. With less than a foot between them, Bond could see something past the cold, judgemental look in Silva’s eyes, carefully scanning across Bond’s features but impossible to miss. There was something vibrant there, something breath-taking and painfully familiar.

It was like looking at M, Bond realised.

“Or eat everyone else,” Silva finished.

His hand moved down the front of Bond’s shirt. Silva smoothed his fingers over Bond’s collarbone. Bond didn’t flinch away from the touch, but he shifted in his seat.

“How you're trying to remember your training now. What's the regulation to cover this?”

His hands moved up Bond’s legs, tracing the inside of his thighs. Bond felt his thighs tense, and his breathing quicken.

Silva smiled, tugging the zip of Bond’s trousers. A conditioned response forced something up to his stomach; Bond felt it as his head became heavier.

“This is not your first time, is it James?”

“Oh?” Bond asked. His voice hitched; he ignored it. “What makes you say that?”

“Because you’re one of _hers_ ,” Silva murmured, now slipping his hand down his trousers, warm skin against skin as he stroked him gently.

 _Hers_. The word hung in the air above them. England’s finest, and this was what was left of him.

Silva’s touch was light, achingly so as he ran his tactile fingers over Bond’s cock, gently rubbing his thumb over the tip. Bond’s breath hitched, and for the first time since Silva’s henchmen tied him down to the chair he strained his arms against the rope, forcing himself to remain calm. He had to force himself to resist rocking his hips upwards, again and again until he was unable to stay still; there was something smug on Silva’s face when he did.

He knew he didn’t want this, that he _shouldn’t_ want this, and that everything Silva did was something that was done to him rather than something he was doing for the mission, but all those lines were beginning to blur. It was all for M, maybe more intimately now than it ever had been before.

M’s grip was rough, and her touch was even, never picking up pace even when Bond thought he’d never be able to finish otherwise; Silva’s was light, leaving an equally powerful ache in Bond’s stomach.

_This is what she made us._

Bond came with a short gasp, quickly and suddenly – because Silva was good, and despite the differences Bond could still feel someone else’s hand touching him.

*

Bond hadn’t lied when he said M never tied him to a chair, but that was only because she never had to.

*

“You performed well today, 007,” M said. “Silva certainly is a slippery one.”

“He’s not easy,” Bond said. “I see why you had to personally manage him.”

M looked at Bond. For a moment he thought she’d say something, but she didn’t, instead carrying on to her office. He followed her inside, placing the briefcase on her desk.

“God knows what we’re going to do with him,” she said. “They’re going to want my head at the inquiry tomorrow unless we can work something out, so take yourself over to Q-branch. Make yourself useful.”

“Of course, ma’am,” Bond said, but didn’t move.

M looked up, almost surprised to see that he was still there. “Yes, Bond?”

“How many others?” he asked.

She sighed, and once again, as always with her, he felt like a petulant child. “If you’re worried, there’s no need to be.”

“But how many?” he repeated.

“There’s you, and there’s him,” she said. “Between the two of you, I can at least say I did one thing right.”

He nodded, fully believing her.

 


End file.
